Pompano was silent for a long while. “Do you want the men to know about all the warning devices?”
Cervante looked up, struck by Pompano’s observation. “No. The men should be aware of some of them, whether explosives or some sort of sensor we can obtain. But no one is to know all of them …”
Pompano blew smoke at Cervante. “You do not trust me? Even though I do not complain about the lack of Blue Seal cigarettes?”
Cervante smiled. “Especially because of that.”
For half a mile the road out of the plantation was wide enough for two vehicles to pass, then it narrowed and turned sharply to the right. An army of flowers covered the path, blooming at the start of the rainy season. A parabolic mirror was nestled high above the ground, so a car coming from either direction could see around the corner.
Cervante motioned for Pompano to stop the truck. He hopped down and inspected the curve. “This will be a good place for a trip wire. Whoever is coming down the road will be more concerned with the upcoming curve and will not notice the wire.”
“The men will remember?”
Cervante pondered the question. He could not babysit the men all of the time, otherwise he would do nothing but ferry them from the plantation to the highway.
“They should all know.” Cervante nodded. “It is imperative that we obtain sensors. The location of the sensors will remain hidden”—he glanced up at Pompano—“and that will be my insurance policy.”
“With enough money I’m sure I can find sensors in the black market in Angeles. I go back, get what I can, and return.”
Cervante remembered the cases of Blue Seal cigarettes in the old man’s sari-sari store, stolen from Clark Air Base. “Do you think you can get what I want?”
Pompano shrugged. “I do not see why not. For a price, anything can be obtained at the base.”
“Good. Then we will use the American sensors to warn us, and we will use their microwaves to drive them away.” Cervante nodded to himself. He knew that once the Americans had left, the New People’s Army would have no real obstacle in spreading their presence. For it was mainly the American anti-Communist paranoia that had kept the fires fueled against the Huks in the first place.
For the first time in a long time, Cervante felt good.
“We have a lead on Kawnlo’s John Doe.”
Roger Epstein lifted his brows. If it was true, it would be the best news he had heard in over a month. It would even make the heat bearable.
Sabine Aquinette pushed a folder across the Agency station chief’s desk. Epstein caught it and withdrew a photograph.
The picture was digitally reconstructed, shaded in false colors to highlight the man’s features. Behind the photo was the one taken last week of Kawnlo and the “John Doe.”
Epstein rocked back in his chair and held the two up. The Kawnlo picture was coarse, tiny blocks of digitized elements standing out and giving the unknown man a blocklike appearance.
But comparing the pictures, there was no doubt in Roger Epstein’s mind that the two men were one man. He tossed the picture on the desk and wiped his forehead of perspiration.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Manila. Sunday night.”
“Philippines? And hanging around with Kawnlo? That doesn’t make sense.” Sabine merely shrugged at the observation. “Any idea who he is?”
“No. That’s what took so long for the ID. We asked Langley to run a comparison of the original picture on all international ports. Without a name or an alias to go by, every international passenger was tagged once we got their picture. Three lookalikes popped out of the computer scan, and I was able to throw two of those out.”
“What about his destination? Did he stay in Manila?”
“I don’t know. If he didn’t, then he bypassed the cameras, which is unlikely. So unless he left the country by boat, he’s probably still there.”
Epstein drummed his fingers on the table. “You’ve checked the passenger manifests.” The question came as a statement.
“We have seventeen flights to choose from, over a twenty-four-hour period — about four thousand names. None of them have any terrorist connections, but—”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Epstein finished for her. He picked up the lone picture. The man had a serious, no-joking look. There were few details other than the facial features: pockmarked skin, the hint of a half-grown mustache.
Sabine spoke quietly. “Well, what do you think? Was it a random meeting with Kawnlo, or is there something to this guy?”
“Nothing Kawnlo does is random. Whoever this John Doe is he’s working in Manila, or somewhere in the Philippines.” He thought quickly; he didn’t like to pass the buck, but until this character surfaced in South Korea, someone else might have a better chance at him.
“Contact the Manila office and send them what we’ve got. Have them ship this guy’s picture to the military bases there — Clark, Subic, and whatever else there is — no telling what he’s up to. But if he’s connected to Kawnlo, then it’s got to be sour.”
Chapter 10
It began to rain on Bruce and Charlie.
Of course, it had never really stopped raining the last two days — the P.I. were in the beginning of their Monsoon season. Seconds ago the fine mist had turned into a downpour.
They had lost track of Catman and Robin earlier in the day. Since yesterday the four had been out in the jungle practicing Escape and Evasion tactics — E & E. The Negrito Abuj Qyantrolo had purportedly been tracking them, but Bruce had seen no sign of the little black man.
And in addition to the E & E, they were also practicing other survival aspects as welclass="underline" no food, or rather no food except for what they found they could eat. They had two days to go before this part of the training was done.
“Find anything?” Charlie looked up hopefully.
“No.” He squatted down by Charlie and stuck a long piece of grass in his mouth. Water plopped around them. Bruce chewed slowly on the stem. “Have you figured out where we are?”
Charlie pointed to a green plastic map of the area; water beaded on the surface. “The next checkpoint should be right over this hill.”
“Hill?” Bruce glanced up at the slope just visible through the foliage and rain. “That looks like Mount Everest.”
Charlie ignored his comment. “If Catman and Robin catch up with us, it will be at this checkpoint.”
Bruce snorted. “The ‘Woods’ brothers? They’ve probably been captured and are back in the O’Club bar, laughing at us right now.”
Bruce stood and surveyed their position. It didn’t matter where they were in the jungle — none of the trees shielded them from the downpour. The leaves were saturated with water and just dumped the rainfall down on them.
It would have been so much easier if they’d had GPS, but even their smart phones had been confiscated from them. Besides, they’d been told that the tall, thick foliage making up “triple canopy” would shield GPS signals; Bruce sourly thought he’d rather risk it by having any type of receiver than depending on old-fashioned compasses.
Bruce motioned for Charlie to follow him underneath a towering tree. As they approached, Bruce was overwhelmed with the smell of perfume. He looked around and spotted an array of red flowers. They looked out of place among the dark green plants. “Hey, it’s not so bad here.” He stepped up to the tree and stood on a twisted root. “Come on, this is partially sheltered.”
The two kept quiet for some time, listening to the rain hit the ground. The plip-plopping sound still came from all around, but soon it lulled them into a mellow mood. The place looked serene. If the situation had been any different, Bruce might even have enjoyed himself. He thought he would have to make an effort to return to the jungle one of these days.